Chapter 3: No Mercy at School

At school, a chubby boy sat behind me and loved to pull my braids.

He’d snap the elastic, then giggle. He didn’t know he was messing with the wrong kid.

Every morning, my adoptive mom would spend half an hour carefully braiding my hair, tying it with pearl bands. One tug from his greasy fingers and it turned into a tangled mess.

I warned him three times.

The fourth time, I turned around and grabbed my stainless steel thermos.

Bang!

The crack echoed off the whiteboard. For a second, everyone just stared—then the screaming started.

The fat kid’s front tooth flew half a foot, landing by the teacher’s desk.

I watched it roll, then locked eyes with him. Lesson delivered.

He clutched his mouth and wailed, blood seeping through his fingers, while I was still holding a big handful of his hair.

The teacher called my parents, her voice trembling: "Anna Quinn knocked out a classmate’s tooth and... and slammed his head on the desk while holding his hair..."

She sounded like she expected the mafia to show up at any minute.

Half an hour later, my adoptive dad’s private helicopter landed right on the school playground.

The helicopter’s rotors sent mulch and dodgeballs flying across the playground. The PTA moms nearly fainted.

He jumped out in a suit, his assistant chasing behind, arms full of million-dollar contracts: "Mr. Quinn, please sign!"

A gust of wind knocked the teacher’s papers everywhere. I heard a kindergartener squeal with delight.

My adoptive dad didn’t even look back: "Get lost, my daughter’s in trouble! I have to clean up!"

He had one priority, and everyone knew it.

My adoptive mom was even more dramatic. She burst into the office still wearing a face mask.

She tore it off, glaring. You’d think she was there to close a merger, not save her kid.

"Who bullied my daughter?"

The teacher shrank into the corner. "It was... your daughter who did the bullying..."

My adoptive dad bent down to check my knuckles. He took my hand in both of his, thumb tracing the bruise. For a second, I saw the worry in his eyes, hidden behind the tough-guy act.

He kissed the red mark, then wiped my tears with his tie.

My adoptive mom pried open my palm. "This kid’s hair is such poor quality, it made our baby’s hand red."

She whipped out a tiny bottle of aloe from her purse—just in case.

The fat kid’s parents were about to explode, but my adoptive dad had already tossed a black card on the table: "Dentist, hair transplant, therapy—swipe it yourself."

He paused, then narrowed his eyes: "But if I ever hear your son lays a finger on my daughter again..."

He slid his business card across the table, the edge catching on the plastic. It was a warning as much as an offer.

"Next time, it won’t just be teeth that fall out."

The next day, my desk became a no-go zone.

No one sat within three feet of me. It was like I’d grown fangs overnight.

The fat kid transferred schools. I heard his dad filed for a job in Canada the night he got the black card.

My adoptive mom hummed as she re-braided my hair. "If anyone messes up your braids again, we’ll use his bones for hair clips. Deal?"

She winked, but I saw her slip a new pack of pearl bands into my backpack.

I nodded hard, biting the straw of my strawberry milk.

It tasted extra sweet that day.